Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   But ne’er didst thou, fair mount, when Greece was young,
   See round thy giant base a brighter choir;
   Nor e’er did Delphi, when her priestess sung
   The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire,
   Behold a train more fitting to inspire
   The song of love than Andalusia’s maids,
   Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire: 
   Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.